


Divergent

by devilsalwayscry



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: 5V/3V, Alternate Timelines, Ficlet Collection, Implied Twincest, M/M, Selfcest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-13 00:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsalwayscry/pseuds/devilsalwayscry
Summary: Seeing this vision of himself from the future--strong and assured, possessed of a demonic power that prickles at Vergil’s instincts and sets his hair on end--fills him with a sense of something like pride. It is an affirmation, proof that he will one day achieve his goals, will acquire the power that he has so desperately sought for his entire life.
Relationships: Background Dante/Vergil, Vergil/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 62
Collections: Spardacest Server Fics and Art





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These were written months ago, based on a conversation in the Spardacest discord server where 5DV end up in an alternate timeline, pre-TNG, and try to help alter the course of this timeline's events. That makes it sound like it has way more plot than it does—it’s really just a few random 5V3V interactions. 5V has some words for 3V. The scenes are all pretty disjointed, but they're in something of a chronological order. The last of the snippets (there's four in total) will be explicit, hence the rating. Some are shorter than others, and I'll try to throw up one per day during [Vergilcest week](https://twitter.com/vergilcestweek) while I work on these other fics for the week. <3

Seeing this vision of himself from the future--strong and assured, possessed of a demonic power that prickles at Vergil’s instincts and sets his hair on end--fills him with a sense of something like pride. It is an affirmation, proof that he will one day achieve his goals, will acquire the power that he has so desperately sought for his entire life. That Dante is at his side as well, willing and eager to please, is all of the evidence that he needs: he will achieve his goals. The confirmation is pleasing--he is not one prone to self-doubt, and yet seeing the fruits of his labors so clearly presented to him serves only to harden his resolve.

His older self looks at him with a small, pinched frown, and before Vergil can recoil he finds himself trapped in a pair of strong arms. The elder cups his face in his hands, equal parts gentleness and casual violence, his nails pressing into Vergil’s neck and scalp like a warning. No amount of struggle can break him free from that grip, and he is forced to stare his future squarely in the face, vulnerable to the scrutiny of silvery-gray eyes that are curiously unlike his own in almost every way.

“No,” he whispers, voice low, words meant only for the two of them. It is as if he has been reading Vergil’s mind; but then, he is him, twenty-some years removed, and so perhaps it only makes sense that he intimately know Vergil’s thoughts. “Twenty-four years of lost time is too long.”

There is a flash of something across his face, something dark and old and pained, and it lingers in the creases near his eyes and the sharp frown that tugs at his lips. The raw display of emotion, of pain, makes Vergil’s lip curl in disgust. That his older self would be so open in this is unthinkable.

The fingers on his neck tighten.

“He loves you.” 

Vergil tears his eyes away from this image of his future to where his Dante is curled in slumber on the couch nearby, Dante’s older self languid and sprawled next to him, a hand protectively resting on the side of his head. The older image of his brother looks at him with thinly veiled interest and, perhaps, a tinge of hatred that darkens his eyes to the point of near blackness. The expression makes something painful and sharp curl in Vergil’s chest, and so he looks away. 

“What good does that do me if I cannot protect him?” Vergil asks, looking once more to his future for answers. The proof that he is right stands before him, in this vision of strength and power, with his Dante so obediently at his side. The older man shakes his head.

“He doesn’t need your protection,” he says, leaning in closer to press his mouth to Vergil’s forehead, a ghost of a touch that tickles when he speaks once more: “But you need him. He is your strength. I have learned that lesson now, and the price I paid for it was too great.” 

There is a raw edge to his voice, quiet and muffled against Vergil’s forehead, that sends a jolt down Vergil’s spine. He fists his hands into the front of his future self’s jacket, pulling until they bump together awkwardly, pressed flush from chest to hip, and he takes a deep breath as a pair of strong arms wind around his shoulders and waist.

It is the first hug he’s allowed himself to indulge in in ten years. That it comes from this out of time image of his future is somehow only fitting--he is the only person he has ever been able to trust, and despite how much he wishes to rally against those words, to say that any price is worth the power to defend himself, he finds that a flicker of doubt has sparked in his chest. He collapses into that embrace with a small sigh, dropping his head against his firm chest.

The older man tucks his chin atop his head and simply holds him, hands strong and unyielding against his back.


	2. Chapter 2

Vergil leans back on the bed, vest unzipped and opened, baring his pale skin to the cold air of the second floor of Dante’s shop. Before him, his future self is slowly undressing, removing his coat and folding it neatly before placing it atop Dante’s dresser. He unzips his own vest next, revealing his bare chest, and the sight makes the breath catch in Vergil’s throat and his pulse quicken.

He’s scarred--not just one or two, but dozens, thick tracks that interrupt the otherwise smooth and pale planes of his chest and arms. When he removes the vest entirely Vergil can see all of them, and he cannot tear his eyes away. What could possibly scar like this? In his eighteen years of life he has never once scarred, and yet here his future self stands, traces of old injuries littering his flesh from the base of his throat to his hips.

His older self steps forward, towering over Vergil, a grimace contorting his face. Vergil raises his hands instinctively to touch, but hesitates, unable to bring himself to feel these marks of a past he has yet to experience--his future, he supposes.

“It’s fine,” his future self says, quietly encouraging. Vergil looks up at his face, tries to think of something to say to avoid this confrontation, but finds himself wanting. Instead he lets his eyes drift back down over his chest and stomach, cataloging with cold efficiency the wide starburst scars where he has been pierced by something.

He raises his hands to touch, then, just to confirm--and they are real, of course, smooth and knotted bumps that rise up on his future self’s skin, a pattern work of memories laid bare. The scars from being pierced are the most numerous, thick and knotted, roughly the size of Vergil’s fist in some places. There are two through his breast, one his left ribs, and another his abdomen--these lie overtop a wicked scar that looks as if he had been nearly bisected, curling along the sides of his stomach and cutting across his abs. When he presses the tips of his fingers to this scar, his elder self shudders, resting a hand on Vergil’s shoulder.

“The outcome of this foolish pursuit,” he says, and Vergil looks up at him abruptly, brows drawn. Once more he is at a loss for words, and so instead he just hums. Is that meant to deter him? He does not expect his endeavours for power to be easy, nor does he expect to walk away entirely unharmed. He is aware of the risks. This does nothing to change that.

Despite this, he continues exploring his elder self’s torso, trailing his fingers over each scar in wonder. The puncture wounds continue on his arms, smaller but more frequent. He takes his future self’s wrist so that he can rotate his arm, examining the way the scar is mirrored on the other side--whatever had done this had pierced clean through him. He narrows his eyes.

“We should not scar this easily,” Vergil says, as if to deny the claim his future is laying before him. The older man huffs, a breathy almost laugh.

“What makes you think it was easily done?” He asks, and before Vergil can respond, he continues: “I have learned that it is possible to override the innate healing afforded to us by our blood. Continuously holding open wounds for weeks at a time will cause the body to attempt to heal around the intrusion, after a time. Once it is removed, it will heal, albeit slowly and poorly. If the healing process is slow enough, we will scar. Some… injuries scar more readily than others, depending on what inflicted the wound.”

The way he says this is cold and detached, as if he is simply stating a curious tidbit about their demon biology that he had just randomly stumbled across rather than very clearly discovered first hand. Vergil remains silent, unsure what to say. He is not afraid of this possibility, but there is something in the way his older self says this--utterly devoid of any feeling, completely flat and monotone, that makes Vergil feel deeply uncomfortable. The damage is more than physical. He knows himself well enough to know what that tone of voice means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one. The longest one is the smut, go figure. Don't @ me about the scars, I know he doesn't have them, but listen. I'm a ho and what is all of my vergilcest if not the most self indulgent nonsense.
> 
> My [Twitter](https://twitter.com/desalwayscries).


End file.
